


Moral implications

by shittershutter



Category: The Walking Dead RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-24
Updated: 2016-02-24
Packaged: 2018-05-23 01:42:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6100686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shittershutter/pseuds/shittershutter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I especially appreciate you took your time to enjoy the visual manifestation of your passion instead of trying to discuss its moral implications”.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moral implications

**Author's Note:**

> It's unbetad (and I'm sorry).

He just texts Norman he needs him one day, and it’s barely a few seconds before “Shave your balls — I’m coming” lights up the screen.

Norman’s an avid practitioner of the mythical philosophy of showing and not telling, which Andy learns to accept through his own beliefs’ rusty squeaking. He’d rather talk, but each time he gets in the general vicinity of his failed marriage, his fears of being alone at this age, at this time, in this fucking world, his uncertainties and his general British passive-aggressive neurotic crisis, Norman’s face turns strategically blank, all emotion drained from it.

But each time he really needs the man he turns around to find him standing there.

When Andy gets an apartment for himself alone, he gets a big bed, a bigger shower — a fitting tribute to their ritual of scrubbing the fake and occasional real blood off each other under the hot water — and an obsessive number of ashtrays to shove in every corner. So whenever he comes home, it always feels like Norman’s there, even when he isn’t.

Between landing and arriving, Norman has a few dinners with random people, a photo shoot and a brief radio interview, and the blur of his Instagram updates lulls Andy to sleep.

In a dreamlike sequence, he opens his eyes again in near-darkness, and Norman’s straddling him, a familiar silhouette glowing at the edges with blue light coming from a TV. He smells of London rain, he feels like an expensive, slick fabric of his suit and tastes like champagne.

“They let me keep the suit,” Norman announces instead of a greeting. “Not sure about the champagne, though.”

He mutes a burp against Andy’s ribs and shakes the half-finished bottle in the air enthusiastically.

“Glad you came,” Andy croaks, finally punching the lamp on. Its merciless yellow light brings out the bloody cobweb in Norman’s eyes, the dark blue circles around, the unnatural orange of the makeup atop of it all. It’s been a long day for him, too.

“Haven’t yet, but we’ll get there.” He keeps moving down, Andy’s hands cradling his skull protectively, ticklish tips of his fingers against the skin.

“I’m sort of shitfaced, so pardon my technique,” Norman continues right into Andy’s crotch. The obscenely intense licking he proceeds with works, though, messy and dirty as it is. Andy’s fingers get in the way, too, when he tries to get the teeth under control, and Norman laughs at that, hot puffs of air against the sensitive skin. “I’m not puking on your dick. I think.”

“Never underestimate the champagne.”

“Yeah, true that,” Norman agrees and swallows him down. He’s merciless and soft at the same time, alternating between ticklish mapping of all the veins with his tongue and deep gulping swallows. It’s not the approach he finishes Andy with — it’s love and effort.

He doesn’t swallow, not all of it, sticking his tongue out, letting it smear and drip down the chin.

There’s a “Look what you’ve done” statement behind it, again — Norman does it a lot, with hickeys, and bruises, and bite marks, and torn shirt cuffs — he shoves them all into Andy’s face, shaping them up into the real thing.

It drips down the lapels, thousands of dollars sprinkled with British DNA, and Norman doesn’t move at all like he dares Andy to do something about it.

Like if Andy chooses to stay half-buried under the cushions forever, Norman’s conscious decision will be to stay motionless, on his knees, with his fingers around the bottle neck still, symbolic and weird as fuck, like an art installation.

If Andy chooses to move, it’ll be straightforward admitting he’s made ethical peace with fucking a costar of his biggest gig yet with an emotional baggage as big as the city they stuck in an apartment in, while his own marriage is nearing the stage they normally write about as “died peacefully surrounded by the loved ones” in the press.

Norman moves his tongue slowly along the upper lip, the cobweb of white strings stretching between, and Andy just lunges forward.

Their mouths crash, scorching hot mess with teeth and saliva, and his own come doesn’t taste like guilt anymore — it tastes a lot like Norman’s mouth.

The man’s body is like a wave; it doesn’t fight him, it flows along, wrapping around, taking him in.

“Didn’t I tell you to shave your balls?” Norman whispers, and they both snort at that.

They get progressively more and more naked, but the slick, shiny dress pants stay the longest — Andy immediately has a thing about how Norman’s ass feels under the fabric. He squeezes it rhythmically as he ruts himself against the hot body under him.

“Screw the jacket, but those had, like, ten red carpets in them still,” Norman sighs in defeat.

He hooks a leg against the hips and pushes upwards, breaking away from the spell of soft touches and gentle rutting. He turns over slowly, restricted by the pants low on his hips. He steadies himself, and he’s so natural, calm and proud in his stance — it makes Andy uneasy of his own bitter shame that dances on the tip of his tongue sometimes.

Andy slips in, and the tight hot heat squeezes him hard. Norman’s hand digs into his hip, short nails penetrating flesh, too, and it’s too good to be happening. Too hopeless to be true.

He has to hold him still, one hand tightly around the ribs, another — low on his stomach as a promise. His mouth finally gets to the skin through all the hair, and he kisses the brow tenderly, in contrast of the violent assault of the muscles contracting around him.

“Just give me a second,” he whispers, and Norman groans in frustration, tense and boiling in his own sweat, but gives him ten, because he’s patient like that.

It’s fast and messy after that. Norman has a hand hooked around Andy’s neck, gasping hotly into his mouth as he fucks himself back on the dick inside him, and Andy’s still, as still as he can be, letting him take it. He feels like he should give some.

Norman jerks himself off quickly, and now the trousers have gone to shit as well, and he breathes Andy’s name through it — the bed creaking in agreement — and collapses when he’s done, his ass still up, impaled.

Andy grabs him by the hips then and fucks him hard through his own orgasm. Norman just gives him sympathetic little moans through it and pats his thighs like he’s done good.

Andy follows the honest urge to clean him up — the gentleman that he is — as he carefully dabbles the abused skin with a paper towel, and he gets transfixed by that hole contracting and pushing out the new substance to clean with each breath Norman takes.

He catches the bead of liquid with his thumb and rubs in into the soft skin of the man’s balls.

“One day,” Norman mumbles into the sheets, “I’m getting your tongue up there. You‘re gonna eat it like you’ve made it.”

Andy chuckles, the spell broken and smacks that pale ass loudly. He helps Norman out of his pants and flops down next to him, forehead to forehead.

“I especially appreciate you took your time to enjoy the visual manifestation of your passion instead of trying to discuss its moral implications.”

“Fucker,” Andy snorts and kicks him in the shoulder. It’s engrained in his reflexes to not to kick the head, especially not after the long flight. The head’s for kissing and enthusiastic nuzzling — that’s about it.

Norman silently accepts the affectionate insult and fishes the bottle from under the bed. They share it, mouths sweet and slick, and the deep comfortable sleep of mentally stable, honest people comes almost organically to both of them like it should.


End file.
